The Little Glances
by E.L. Richards
Summary: Sometimes John and Sherlock share these little glances. What will Sherlock do when he catches John staring one evening? Mild slash. Oneshot.


It's the little glances.

The shared look every time blue meets gray. At first, it seemed to be an efficient method of silent communication; Sherlock would flash him a look that would tell him to stop talking or to distract Lestrade while he worked in the morgue. However, the glances have become a little more frequent and not necessarily for the little favors anymore, but rather something else.

John couldn't pinpoint it, the twist in his stomach whenever Sherlock looked at him, but he didn't bother trying to figure it out. He brushed it off as some sort of stomach bug he probably picked up at work, or at least he used to. The feeling has lasted too long and has been happening far too frequently to be any kind of illness, so it had to be something else.

He had seated himself in a chair opposite the sofa where Sherlock was currently sulking, pretending to be checking his blog while he mulled this over in his head. He was doing his best to avoid being "deduced" by the dark-haired detective once more, especially since his pondering was leading him to an unfamiliar train of thought.

The little glances, the twist in his stomach…what if it was something John had been trying his hardest to avoid? Everyone always assumes that the two men are in a relationship and John vehemently denies every inquiry, insisting upon being nothing more than a colleague of the great detective.

It was then that he found himself staring at the back of Sherlock's head, imagining what it would be like to run his fingers through the curly locks. John wondered if they would feel as soft as they looked, and if they would fall back into place if he ran his hands through the mass of hair. John's eyes fell to his hands, studying the creases and scars, wondering if hands as rough as his should be coming in contact with hair so perfect.

"John."

John's head snapped up instantly, "What is it this time, Sherlock?"

"You've been staring at your hands in a way that could be classified as longingly for the past five minutes. I can assume that you are not actually that interested in your hands," The brunette stated coolly.

"Oh, I suppose I have," John murmured, "Guess I better stop then."

So he did, and attempted to pay attention to his blog, but he took notice when Sherlock rolled onto his back and found that he had become distracted once more. John's dark eyes carefully followed the line of the detective's sharp cheekbones, down to the point of his noise and ending at the gentle curve of his lips. Those round, bow-shaped lips that he longed to press to his own.

Wait…did he just think that he wanted to kiss Sherlock? That couldn't be right. He was into women, not men…but there was that twist in his stomach from Sherlock. Did he…fancy Sherlock? The great Sherlock Holmes? That just didn't seem to add up in John's head; throughout his entire life he had solely been attracted to women, the thought of being with a man never even crossed his mind.

That is, until he met a certain consulting detective with the sharpest cheekbones he had ever seen and hair that looked softer than the fur of a puppy. A certain consulting detective who turned his world upside down and out of the miserable depression he had been in, a psychosomatic limp from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Yet somehow, Sherlock took the limp away, his tremor, and made him feel like he had a friend and someone to confide in once more—he needed that especially since Harry and him had long since stopped talking. John couldn't help but be drawn to Sherlock.

"John. You're doing it again. Staring, only this time it's at me."

John's eyes widened, "Oh, sorry. I should probably retire for the evening then."

"If you say so." Was the reply that came from the sulking form on the couch—Sherlock always sulked on days when Lestrade had no cases for him.

John plugged the charger into his computer, placed his mug in the sink and headed for the stairs. At least he headed for the stairs until he walked into Sherlock's lean frame, he was surprised—Sherlock was quieter than he thought, rising from the sofa without him noticing.

"John, I need some help with an experiment."

John rolled his eyes, "Can't you just let me go to bed? I have a lot on my mind right now."

Sherlock grinned and stepped closer to the shorter man, "I know, and this will help."

John could feel his face heating up as Sherlock leaned down, bringing his face closer, "What are you—"

He was cut off by a pair of soft lips pressed against his own, the very lips he had been wondering about just a few minutes earlier. They were even better than he had thought, molding perfectly to his in a way he had never achieved with one of the women he had once dated.

Before he knew it, John had wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, tangling his fingers in the dark locks he had fantasized about. His hair was much softer than expected as well, the curls twisting around John's strong fingers, inviting him to tighten his grip.

Unfortunately, Sherlock released John sooner than the blonde desired, leaving John more than a little confused, "Sherlock…what just happened?"

"Exactly what you wanted, John. Now you know what my hair and lips feel like," the detective answered, a satisfied smirk gracing his features.

"Um, how did you know I was curious about that?" John wondered, "You were sulking on the couch the whole time."

Sherlock shook his head and make a "tsk, tsk" noise, "You, John Watson, are my friend and thus I can tell what you're thinking."

Blinking a few times before regaining his composure, John sidestepped around the detective and quietly padded his way up to his room. He fell back on his bed and thought about the events that had just transpired, rolling over to try and get comfortable. He pulled the duvet over his head, hiding his blush even though he couldn't be seen, and he swore he heard Sherlock chuckling below.


End file.
